


The Medicine of Life

by bittenfeld



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Friendship, M/M, Pre-Slash, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-10
Updated: 2015-01-20
Packaged: 2018-03-07 00:39:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3154322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bittenfeld/pseuds/bittenfeld
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Final – Chapter 3:  Jim Kirk, smiling broadly, practically manhandled the doctor into the foyer of his home, before gripping him in a rib-crushing bear-hug.<br/>McCoy returned the hug as best he could with bandaged hands, and then they both lost all sense of time as they stood there in the walnut-and-marble foyer.  Finally Kirk broke the hug, reaching both hands up to the doctor’s face to plant a big smoochy kiss on McCoy’s weathered cheek.<br/>“Hey hey,” McCoy protested, “watch it.  You want the neighbors talking?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three-point-two days, according to Spock's unerring sense of time, had passed while McCoy, Spock, and Kirk had remained prisoners, locked up in the hold of the Klingon battle cruiser, no food or water, not even communication with their captors. Nothing. Just three lonely terrifying days of physical discomfort and imaginations running wild with thoughts of potential torture and death, hoping against hope that the Enterprise crew might rescue them any minute. For all they knew, the Enterprise might even have been destroyed when the Klingon ship had captured them.  
> A scream outside the cell startled McCoy out of his twilit musings.

As the edges of the hypnotic pain-block receded, tendrils of fire probed tentatively around the corners. Leonard McCoy thought he might bawl like a child if it came back like before… oh god, oh god… what were they going to do now… what the hell were they going to do now?

He was an old man now, and very tired… so very tired.

The stench of the close fetid air nearly made him vomit. Three-point-two days, according to Spock's unerring sense of time – three-point-two days had passed while McCoy, Spock, and Kirk had remained prisoners, locked up in the hold of the Klingon battle cruiser, no food or water or toilet facilities, not even communication with their captors. Nothing. Just three lonely terrifying days of physical discomfort and imaginations running wild with thoughts of potential torture and death, hoping against hope that the Enterprise crew might rescue them any minute. But no rescue ever came. For all they knew, the Enterprise might even have been destroyed when the Klingon ship had captured them.

By the light through the small barred window in the heavy cell door, McCoy looked once more at his hands, his horribly burned hands. Surgeon’s hands, now charred, ruined. The stink of burnt flesh assailed his nostrils, and now abruptly he did vomit all over the front of his ragged filthy uniform. After three days of starvation there was little in his stomach – just bile that gushed out of his nose and mouth, and he doubled over – but his stomach heaved and retched until at last there was no more to come out.

Finally when the retching had quieted and he could breathe, he collapsed back against the metal bulkhead of the too-warm cell, muscles a quivering mass, chest heaving for breath, heart poun­ding. He spat a mouthful of bile, wiped his runny nose across his torn charred sleeve. Then his head dropped back against the wall, sweat glistening on his face, running down his chest, his back, soaking into his shirt, eyes closed, mouth open, panting, gasping. A sob caught in his throat. He was going to die. They were all going to die.

After three days of torture from their own imaginations, finally the Klingon commander had ordered them assembled in one holding cell for him to address them. It was Krugh. McCoy consi­dered that particular man to be one of the damnably coldest, cruelest individuals he had ever confron­ted: an individual responsible for at least twenty-five years of brutality against the Federation and against the Enterprise specifically, culminating in the most heinous act of all, the callous murder of Kirk’s son some years previously, deliberately performed in front of Kirk’s eyes via long-range tele­cam. Kirk had very nearly lost his sanity then, and had vowed personal revenge, black revenge against the Klingon ship and the Klingon commander, absolutely unforgiving and unforgetting. But victory had continually and frustratingly eluded the Enterprise, and now, ultimately, Fate proved it­self traitorously aligned on the Klingons’ behalf. Now, after all these years of contention and strife between the Enterprise and the Klingon ship Kh’ardath, finally the Klingons had gained the military and technical advantage, and had used it immediately… and brutally.

The laser blast… again and again, over and over, it played behind McCoy’s eyes, the gro­tesque nightmare… their Klingon captors thrusting the three priceless Federation prisoners into the dirty foul holding cell on the Klingon command vessel… Now after three days of imagined horrors, the torture would begin for real, the brutal interrogations… Krugh, satisfied over his long-awaited victory, twenty-five years in coming… and even so, Jim Kirk laughing in his face, taunting, swear­ing, cursing to the point of rage and beyond, even though bloody and battered like McCoy, like Spock… and then without warning, the Klingon guard ramming a weapon barrel into Kirk’s tailbone, Kirk sprawling forward, hands and knees smacking the filthy floor in front of Krugh, and then the guard grabbing a brutal fistful of Kirk’s hair and forcing the admiral’s head down – against the human’s desperate resistance – until Kirk’s face had mashed against his enemies boot, and then Krugh coldly taunting his age-long antagonist while the guard had continued to rub and press Kirk’s face against Krugh’s boot, wipe Kirk’s face on the dirty floor, force the Enterprise’s captain to make foul obeisance to the Klingon commander; and Kirk writhing and fighting, sobbing, screaming in rage and humiliation; and McCoy’s howl echoing him, and McCoy surging forward in blind scream­ing frenzy…

… and then, abruptly, McCoy flat on his face on the floor, under the heavy weight of another Klingon guard, hearing but not fully comprehending the portent of the alien Klingon syllables when Krugh had ordered the guard to stretch McCoy’s arms out straight on the floor over his head… and then, out of the corner of his eye, barely seeing the glint of light on a metal object at Krugh’s belt as Krugh had drawn his laser pistol, McCoy’s body stiffening for the fatal blast, the hum of a shot fired … and then pain… searing, raging, raw, burning agony surging in his seared hands, up his arms, into his body, into his mind… And McCoy screaming and screaming, and screaming…

A new scream nearly tore from his lips now. He choked it down until his throat ached. A sob gurgled out in its place, tears welled up in his eyes. Again he tried to spit out the bile taste in his now and mouth, then sagged back against the metal bulkhead. He turned his head slightly toward his friend, alone with him now, locked in the belly of an enemy ship, with no hope of rescue, no hope of escape.

Spock sat against the bulkhead too, just a few feet away from McCoy, where he had crawled, dragging his broken legs, after taking the doctor to himself after the laser blast and easing his friend’s unbearable pain. The Vulcan’s eyes were closed now, wearied craggy face darkly silent, the pain of his shattered legs buried deep beneath a fixed meditative mask.

After the laser blast, McCoy in his agony had not been aware that the Klingons had left the cell, taking Kirk with them for interrogation, or that Spock had come to him there on the floor while the doctor squirmed wildly on the deck, screaming his lungs raw, overcome by the searing fire in his burned flesh. All he remembered was the firm touch of Vulcan fingers on the left side of his face, and then blessed relief of the scorching heat and pain, and an anaesthetic haze settling over him like a comfortable fog, and his hands no longer hurting at all.

That had lasted for awhile now, but it couldn’t last forever, and even now McCoy could feel needle stabs of pain lance his scorched flesh.

Welling tears spilled down his cheeks. He was so tired, so very tired, weak, hungry. He didn’t want it to end like this, a dirty stinking death in a dirty stinking Klingon vessel, light-years from Earth, from home, from Maggie. When the duty-officer delivered the message to Maggie, would he tell her how her husband had met his death? a valiant heroic surrender of his life to protect his command ship? or the death of an animal cramped in a stinking dung hole, starved to death in his own filth… Would they tell her about the charred flesh and the vomit and the blood and the broken teeth and the broken bones… and his captain’s face obscenely pushed down to lick the enemy com­mander’s boot… to lick it and lick it… dear god stop it! stop it stop it…

He was sixty-three years old. That wasn’t old, not old enough to die. Twenty-five years of that – more than half of his adult life – doing the work he loved as the Chief Medical Officer aboard the most beautiful vessel that had ever flown, the USS Enterprise, with a crew which, after twenty-five years, was more like family than co-workers – in fact, more like family than family: he spent nine months out of every year with them, and only three with Maggie… god, he wanted to be with her now… so much, so very much…

Instead he was locked in a stinking alien vessel with his two closest friends, awaiting torture and execution, and not a damn thing anyone could do, not one damn thing…

A scream, outside the cell but close by, startled him out of his twilit musings. Adrenalin surged in his veins.

Another one, then another, higher pitched, wailing, punctuated by a shriek… and then no­thing… Nothing.

Heart pounded with adrenalin rush, limbs trembling uncontrollably. He sat forward, alert, straining to catch any more sound from Kirk, any assurance that the admiral was still alive, yet dreading to hear another reaction to the torture which Jim was most certainly undergoing now.

“Goddamn Klingon bastards!” the doctor muttered beneath his breath. “Goddamn fucking Klingon bastards!”

“Profanity will not ameliorate the situation,” his partner beside him reminded calmly. Spock had roused too at the screams, but without the same emotional rage which pumped through McCoy's body.

“Well, it goddamn makes me feel better!” McCoy snapped back, unaware why he was irrita­ted with his old friend now, who too must have been cogitating over their impending doom. Spock had family too, back on Vulcan… in what manner would elderly Sarek and Amanda be notified of their son’s death?

“We’re gonna die, Spock! doesn’t that mean a goddamn thing to you?... my god, what those fucking bastards must be doing to Jim…” A sob shuddered; he spat another bitter mouthful of saliva and bile.

And then, as if to prove his comment, another scream from outside broke the silence. McCoy winced, felt a scream tear at his own chest.

“I am acutely aware of the circumstances facing us, Doctor,” the Vulcan officer responded, voice quality ever level and gentle. “I am merely reminding you that raising your blood pressure will not change one aspect of the matter at hand.”

“Well, as a doctor, may I remind _you_ that vocal expression is an excellent method of goddamn stress reduction!” The pain was growing worse; besides, his head throbbed now too, and his stomach was simultaneously hungry and nauseous. Why was he arguing with Spock now, anyway? All their banter, all their contrary opinions… after twenty-five years, none of it was very important anymore. In a short time, they’d all be dead: himself, Spock, Jim…

“I’m sorry,” he apologized to Spock. It wouldn’t be right for their last words to be angry ones. “… It’s just that I’ve never before faced death and destruction aboard a Klingon warship. Please understand. I’m human.”

“I understand perfectly, Doctor. There is no need to apologize. Your emotional outbursts never have and never shall jeopardize our friendship.”

McCoy looked back at his old friend. Even as he had spoken, Spock's etched weathered face had remained rigid, eyes closed. But McCoy knew that he too was feeling the agony of Kirk’s screams, and of his own cuts and bruises and broken bones. The Klingons had deliberately effected the capture in an exceedingly brutal manner.

McCoy blinked back wetness in his eyes. “How are you doing?” he inquired gently. “How are your legs?”

”They are broken, as I am sure you are aware.” Spock's eyes were open now, but gazing into the emptiness before him. “Nevertheless, I am coping adequately, thank you. As I was able to lessen your pain, so am I also able to alleviate my own.”

McCoy wasn’t sure he believed the man.

Another yelp from Kirk somewhere close, and then Kirk’s voice, tense, angry, agitated: “… goddamn bastards! no I’m not gonna… surrender my ship!... take her yourselves… if you think… you’re a… match for… my crew… ohh!” A sharp yell, sounds of a struggled, then the heavy thud of a body hitting the floor… strange unidentifiable mechanical humming noises… a series of sharp hoarse shrieks… a hesitation, then Kirk’s tearful angry voice: “goddamn you, Krugh… you bas­tard… you’d better… get your money’s worth… from us because… you’ll never get… my ship! ohh! Ohh!” More unintelligible sounds, then Kirk again, pleading, wailing, “… no!... god no!... help me!... Spock help me!!...”

“My god!” McCoy managed a tight whisper through the tears, “what are they doing to him?”

Kirk’s voice more frantic, high-pitched, than ever: ‘Spock… god Spock help me!...” Sobs of terror broke his screams. “ _Sp-ock_!!”

“I assume, Doctor,” Spock responded to McCoy, apparently oblivious to the admiral’s frantic pleas for help, “that they are utilizing methods of which we are aware, although no doubt by now their interrogation technology has probably advanced beyond what we have heard of…”

“Stop it, dammit!” McCoy broke him off with a sharp hiss. “I didn’t want details, I was just making a comment!... how can you be so goddamn cold about it? he’s calling for you , dammit!”

Spock's face closed on something very deep within. “I am well aware that the admiral is call­ing for me, Doctor. However, I am unable to assist him as he requests at this moment. Surely that must be obvious.” A slight shudder of breath escaped Vulcan lips. “Please, Doctor McCoy, I am as profoundly affected by this as you are, but you must know by now that I do not express my feelings as you do. Please do not continue to demand that of me.”

Instant remorse shamed the doctor that he had forcibly extracted an unwilling admission of pain from the reticent Vulcan. He hadn’t meant to do that. “I’m sorry, Spock… sorry…” Sobs welled up and out. He didn’t try to stop them. “Why are they doing it?” he moaned, “why are they doing this to Jim? If they want information from him, they can simply pick his brain with the mind-scanner…” – the rest of the sentence was nearly incoherent through tears – “… they don’t have to beat him to shit to get it… damn them… damn them…”

… screams from Kirk’s direction – no words now, just animal screams…

“I am not certain, Doctor,” Spock replied, “if you are still merely speaking to yourself, or if you expect me to answer. But surely you must know that Krugh wants far more than simply informa­tion. For twenty-five years the Enterprise has opposed him, thwarted him, caused him to lose face before his people. To a Klingon, that is unforgivable. He feels that he has twenty-five years of humi­liation to avenge, to obtain satisfaction for. He thinks that he can gain reparation by humiliating us and subjecting us to severe torture. But he will discover that he cannot. His anger will feed inside himself forever.”

“Stop it, Spock… just stop it… how can you be so logical and sensible at a time like this… oh god my hands! They’re burning up again!...” In agony, McCoy crumpled forward, head on knees, seared hands open in supplicating posture, crying helplessly, a middle-aged man sobbing desperately.

“Doctor…” Spock's voice murmured soothingly; then McCoy felt a hand on his shoulder, heard Spock shift closer to him, although he didn’t raise his head to see. Then from behind, the Vul­can’s fingers touched the side of his face again, locked into a mind-meld; and once more, slowly, McCoy felt the searing pain recede, felt Spock's body jerk and quiver with tiny spasms as the Vulcan calmly absorbed and dissipated the agonizing fire. Limply the human collapsed back against Spock, partly in relief from the pain, mostly in utter mental and physical fatigue.

And then McCoy felt something he’d never felt before in all the twenty-five years that he’d known the Vulcan officer: Spock's arms clasped him gently about the chest and drew him close in a sympathetic embrace. McCoy allowed him the intimacy… they needed each other now, oh god they needed each other now more than ever. He let himself be hugged tightly to Spock's body, felt Spock's rising and falling chest, felt Spock's breath ruffling his hair.

From outside, Kirk was still crying out, but more weakly now, as though he was nearing exhaustion.

Wetness dripped on McCoy’s hair as he remained in Spock's embrace… what was it? it felt like tears, but it couldn’t be – not from Spock, not from the man whose Vulcan blood had always disdained physical contact, deplored demonstrations of emotion. Startled, the doctor looked back at Spock's bruised abrased face.

The Vulcan’s eyes were closed, but from the corners tears leaked out, trailed down the lined mature face, leaving glistening tracks. No longer was he trying to deny them.

Again McCoy leaned back against his friend. The strange tears dripped on his hair, on his shoulders… and it was all right. Within a few hours they’d probably be dead – a little comfort now might make those next few intolerable hours even just fractionally tolerable.

He was an old man… they were all old men now, all of them.

* * * * *

 _to be continued_ …

_“A faithful friend is the medicine of life.”_

_– Apocrypha_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slumped back in his chair at his desk in Engineering, Montgomery Scott breathed another prayer to the Almighty. Normally he believed in the power of prayer, but for the last three days his faith had been stretched thin – damn thin. If they got out of this one – even half-intact – it would be a major miracle.  
> They’d all seen the ugly face of the Klingon commander, Krugh, appear unexpectedly on the Enterprise’s view-screens to announce that the Federation Starship USS Enterprise now belonged to the Klingon Empire. What they couldn’t see was the Klingon ship itself which now held the Enterprise captive, powerless, and dead in space.

Slumped back in his chair at his desk in Engineering, Montgomery Scott breathed another prayer to the Almighty. Normally he believed in the power of prayer, but for the last three days his faith had been stretched thin – damn thin. If they got out of this one – even half-intact – it would be a major miracle.

They’d all seen the ugly face of the Klingon commander, Krugh, some hours after the inci­dent, appear unexpectedly on the Enterprise’s view-screens to announce plainly that the Federation Starship USS Enterprise now belonged to the Klingon Empire, and would soon be taken back to Klinzhai for her crew to stand trial for twenty-five years of atrocities against the Empire. And later they had all seen the image of their captain, bloody and bruised, shamefully stripped naked, manhan­dled by the Klingon bastards in front of the telecam, his weak tortured figure disconcertingly vivid on the screens.

What they couldn’t see was the Klingon ship itself which now held the Enterprise captive, powerless, and dead in space.

It had all happened so quickly, three days before. The Klingons had counted on the element of surprise, and it had succeeded exceptionally well. It had caught the Enterprise totally off-guard and completely unprepared, with no portent at all of the impending disaster.

Well, almost none. When Scott had called for a review of all sensor readings just prior to the attack, a number of aberrant findings had stood out glaringly. At the time, the technicians had at­tempted to analyze the odd readings – Scott didn’t fault the techs, they had tried – but nobody could have guessed that the findings referred to a massive Klingon warship sitting right on their tail, com­pletely obscured from notice by some new technologically-advanced cloaking power.

And then without warning, Enterprises had suddenly shut down. Even now, days later, Scott could relive the heart-stopping horror of the sound of all engines revving down to full stop, and then the eerie silence in the engine compartment, and the massive panic that had terrorized the engineering crew into mad frantic action.

That had been followed ten seconds later by a frantic call from the bridge that, simultaneously with the power-loss, scanner screens had all noised out, and the admiral and Captain Spock and Doc­tor McCoy had vanished together – instantly, as if in a transport beam – and what the hell was going on?

They had found out finally, when Krugh had over-ridden their blanked-out communications and coldly informed them of their situation, and let them know that the three prisoner were all pri­soners about the Kh’ardath – alive, but not too well.

Scott still could not imagine what technology the Klingons must have developed that enabled them to just casually snatch individuals off another ship, especially command officers. Just like all Federation command rank for the past few years, the admiral, Spock, and the doctor all had within their bodies implanted transponder / bioscanner units, as did Scott, each with its own unique fre­quency; and without knowing those particular frequencies, there should have been no way in hell for what happened to happen. Unless Klingon technology was far advanced beyond what Federation intelligence had reported so far – or unless Klingon intelligence had tapped into a high-level Federa­tion security breach and simply stolen the codes. And the far-reaching implications of either night­marish possibility Scott did not even want to consider.

Once again Scott started at the top of the stack of computer print-outs sitting before him on his desk. He had called for an analysis of all computer activity recorded from an hour prior to the shut-down up until present. Each section of personnel was researching their own output and report­ing back to Scott, and it was a hellishly slow job with their power cut down to a fraction of normal and a long of the analyses being done by hand.

With both the admiral and Captain Spock off the ship, command fell to the Chief Engineer, and what a hell of a time… what a goddamned hell of a time… sudden mass disaster. Scott’s pri­mary duty – and his real skill – was to keep the Enterprise’s machinery functioning flawlessly, and although he willingly accepted the duty of third-level command and performed it well, he felt no great ease in it, unlike Kirk did. That was the admiral’s specialty, to captain the ship, and he was very good at it – and oh god, why wasn’t he here now to coördinate this god-awful emergency? And if only Spock were present to analyze this crushing mass of information – something his rapid-fire analytical Vulcan mind could have accomplished with little strain and in very short order.

But they weren’t here, and Scott was, and of course, he had the rest of the crew working fran­tically, and they were a good crew, each member talented at his or her own specialty; and if there was an answer at all to be found, it would be found sooner or later. Somewhere in all the printouts, in all the data, there had to be some clue out of their present hellish predicament.

Right now, at the bottom line, stood the fact that the tractor-energy field imprisoning them affected the starship’s external activities, and only to a lesser extent its internal functions. The force which had killed their engines and held them locked in position also reflected back their scans and sensors, all external communications, all weapons capabilities.

But at least they still had some internal power, enough for life-support, and internal communi­cations.

And they still had self-destruct capability. At least there was no worry that the ship would fall into Klingon hands. If destruction became necessary; Scott knew that he would carry it out without hesitation, blowing up the ship right in their filthy Klingon hands, taking with it its nearly five-hun­dred-member crew and – prayer of prayers – the Klingon ship too, if the invisible vessel lingered anywhere within range.

But before it came to that, surely there was an alternative answer – there had to be… if they just had time to locate it – and Scott was keenly aware that every minute longer it took, was one more brutal minute longer for the three prisoners on the Klingon ship as well.

What a hell of a time to be thrust into command.

A buzz at his office door.

“Come in,” he called.

The door slid open with a hum, and Sulu entered, carrying sheaf of computer hard-copy which he laid before the engineer, announcing excitedly, “I think we’ve located the position of the warship, Scotty.”

The Asian helmsman pointed to a cluster of numbers circled in red. “Three-and-a-half days ago at 07:13 hours, one-point-two minutes before the attack, helm compensated for a sudden gyro­scopic shift on vector three-seven-eight-point-one-two. There were no known electronic bursts nearby to cause it, no magnetic disturbances, no iron-ore asteroids within effective range. At the same time, a burst of distortion was recorded here:” – he pointed to a graphic flurry of activity on the paper – “on vector four-five-niner-point-oh-seven. On the hunch that the engagement of the tractor-beam was the cause of the shift and distortion, Chekov then calculated a triangulation to the most logical position of the beam’s power-source. Refolding the paper, he presented the bottom-line figure to Scott. “Six-hundred-twenty-two-point-one-five-eight kilometers due aft of us, one-hundred-eighty-point-three degrees horizontal, two-hundred-seventy-point-one degrees vertical.”

“Dead on our tail,” Montgomery Scott murmured, “and right in line with our aft torpedos… If only we could somehow blast through the energy field...”

“If we fired right now, our shot would be reflected back onto us just like our scanner signals, right?”

“Aye, Commander,” The Scotsman’s mouth tugged into a bitter smile beneath salt-and-pep­per moustache, “that it would. Neither our phasers nor our torpedos are of any use to us as long as that Klingon bird holds us locked up like this. If we fired now, we’d only succeed in blowing our­sel’s to kingdom come.”

“There’s a chance it could come to that, isn’t there?” Sulu asked, “ – blowing ourselves up if we can’t get away?”

“Aye, lad.” Some of the bitterness left Scott’s smile as the engineer attempted a small word of hope to his co-worker and good friend. “But it hasna’ come to that yet – we still have work to do. Besides,” he winked a tiny wink of comfort for his fellow-crewman, “I dinna’ think I could face the admiral and inform him that I blew his ship up while he had entrusted her to my safe-keeping.”

Sulu tried to smile – it wasn’t very convincing – then the smile faded into a frown of pain. “I uh, also came to say… well, the rest of the bridge crew just wanted to tell you that we’ll support whatever decision you make, and we’ve all had a good twenty-five years together.”

“Thanks, Sulu,” Scott acknowledged. “Aye, that we have.”

“What makes me sick is that the Klingons could bring us to this – putting us in the position of actually having to contemplate blowing ourselves up just because that monster Krugh has decided to toy with us. Scotty, what the hell are we going to do?”

Scott shook his head, seriousness replacing his bleak attempt at comfort. “I wish I had an answer for ye, lad. But I dinna’ have a clue.”

Then Sulu looked like he had to say something more, something he didn’t want to actually form into words. “I wonder if they’re still alive… Admiral Kirk looked so bad…” Sharply Sulu’s voice choked off, a few seconds passed before he could finish. “Maybe they’re already dead… Maybe Krugh has already killed them…”

“Oh, I doubt that. That Klingon bastard willna’ kill them while he can still gain satisfac…” Voice abruptly cut off, black anger set the Scotsman’s weathered face. He could say no more.

Sulu looked angry and ill. “Goddamn those bastards. Goddamn them.”

The door buzzer hummed again, and a female voice outside announced, “It’s me, may I come in?”

“Come in, Janice,” Scott replied.

Transporter Chief Janice Rand entered Scott’s office. “I think I’ve got something, Scotty.” The blonde woman in her late-forties laid pages of calculations on her supervisor’s desk. “I’ve ana­lyzed the frequency of the force-field. It’s a multi-phasic transmission riding on a carrier wave of high-magnitude with the piggy-back frequencies varying in medium-range amplitude.”

Scott’s eyes watched her with new interest. “Lass, are ye thinking about…”

“Right now I’m having the computer break down the pattern and then attempt to create har­monics which could pass through the field. Then if we can calculate the proper harmonic variations of the admiral’s and Spock's and Doctor McCoy’s transponder frequencies…”

Sulu’s expression brightened with excitement. “Oh my god, we can transport them back!”

For the first time since the attack, real hope caught them. The Scotsman’s face was bright with intensity. “Oh, lass, if ye can do it…”

“I think I can… I hope…”

“Oh, Janice, darlin’, I pray to the Almighty that you’re right!”

“And,” Sulu interjected, “maybe we can realign the photon frequencies as well – get a shot through the force-field instead of having it reflect back on us.”

Rand looked puzzled. “Get a shot at the Klingon ship? Do we know where it is now?”

Scott pushed Sulu’s paper toward her. “Sulu and Chekov think they’ve located the Klingon bird sitting on our tail, right in line with the aft photon torpedos… Now, it would be a shame to leave them sittin’ there and no’ do anything about it…”

Sulu was half-perched over the engineer’s desk in excitement. “If we can transport everyone back, then I’ll be perfectly happy to blast those Klingon bastards clean out of the galaxy.”

Scott matched the helmsman’s excitement. “Sulu, get back to the bridge… Janice, when ye get your figures, send them to Mister Sulu’s console. Then Sulu, start calculating realignment for photon and scanner frequencies… Then we’ll see if maybe we can give Krugh the surprise of his life.”

Eternity passed in anxious hours for everyone, while calculations were run and re-run, checked and run again. The hell of waiting nearly drove everyone crazy, and all Scott could think about was the missing men aboard the Klingon ship having god-knew-what tortures and torments inflicted upon them…

… _stop it_! he ordered himself… if he didn’t keep his mind on the work at hand, he’d make a mistake and that would delay the rescue…

To effectively use what power they still had, all energy would be channeled to the transporter and weapons systems. Even life-support would be temporarily by-passed – for the few seconds that the rescue attempt would take, life-support could be suspended; and if the attempt failed, life-support wouldn’t matter anyway – the Klingons would most certainly take the opportunity to blow the Enter­prise into little bits of flotsam, and there wouldn’t be any life left to support.

And finally the last computation snapped into place. The entire crew waited alert and pre­pared, and Commandeer Scott in the captain’s chair gave the final sequence of orders.

On the main viewing screen was the realigned rear-telecam view: a vast empty field of stars. But hopefully, if Sulu and Chekov had calculated correctly, sitting dead-center in the screen was a space that should be occupied by a Klingon warship. Transport stood by in readiness, as did Sickbay and Fire Control. Nothing was left unthought or undone.

“All right, here goes,” Scott pronounced, half-under his breath and half for the bridge crew to hear. The tension all over the ship was nearly a tangible entity. This had to go right the first time. There wouldn’t be a second chance. Scott couldn’t think of anything they’d overlooked.

He switched on the intercom. “Fire Control, lock torpedos and phasers on target, and prepare to fire barrages at my order.”

“Torpedos and phasers locked, sir,” the acknowledgement responded.

“Transport, this is Scott.”

“Transport here.”

“Fix transponder frequencies on the party.”

“Frequencies fixed, sir.”

The tangible tension squeezed hearts, lungs. Nobody breathed.

Scott felt ribs clamps his chest.

“Transport,” he ordered, “Beam up the party and acknowledge when you have them all aboard.”

“Transport beaming now, sir,” Janice Rand’s voice sounded exceptionally calm.

Over the intercom Scott could hear the familiar hum of the transporter. He had never realized before just how long eight seconds could last. Chief Rand literally held the lives of the Enterprise’s three top officers in the palm of her hand. Those eight seconds stretched into an eternity of adrenalin agony. Scott imagined that right this moment the Klingons must be in surprised shock that their assumed superiority was now suddenly being undermined, and that even now Krugh was realizing the Enterprise’s trick and ordering his ship to drop the cloaking field and raise shields and power up the phasers to exploded the Enterprise right out of the sky.

Over the transporter intercom came a gasp of shock – what did that mean? had it worked? were they alive, dead, had there been a malfunction, did the realignment of frequencies cause distor­tions in their patterns? – _oh dear god no, let that not be_ –

“Transport to bridge.” Rand’s voice interrupted the bridge stillness, but without the previous calm. “We have them! Go ahead, Scotty.” Her voice was shaky.

“Thank god!” Scott responded. He dearly wanted to ask the condition of the returned crew, but now was not the time. Even now the empty field of stars on the view-screen was beginning to waver and shimmer – perhaps into the shape of a Klingon heavy-cruiser? – right where Chekov had guessed it would.

“Fire Control!” Scott nearly yelled. “Commence firing!”

“Firing commenced,” the response came.

On the screen they saw the Klingon ship gradually solidifying, they saw their own barrage of phaser fire hurtling toward its target – _please please strike before they raise shields_ … _please_... _oh please_ …

A glare of light, another, then another, as the photon and phaser blasts struck home. Explo­sions all over the front of the Klingon ship, which set off chain-reactions within the vessel. Enter­prise’s weapons continued to fire and fire.

The Klingon ship heaved once, twice, in death throes, then exploded in a tremendous blast which momentarily blinded several of the Enterprise’s scanners and rocked the starship with debris. Bit of wreckage scintillated in multi-color sparkle, then vanished from view… and it was all over.

And the star-field was empty again – but this time for real.

Acting-Captain Scott felt the adrenalin rush through his body, and he could only sit there trembling badly. Now he had to call Janice again and ask about the condition of the rescuees.

“Transport,” he called, “how are they? Did you get them all aboard with no malfunction?”

“No malfunction,” Janice answered. “We got them. Medical is taking them right now.”

In the background, Scott could hear voices of medical personnel as the patients were loaded on gurneys for a quick ride to Sickbay. “What about the Klingon ship?” Janice asked. “Are we safe yet?”

“We’re safe, lass. It worked. It all worked as planned. Ye did a great job. Thank ye, lass.” He switched off the intercom, looked over all the intense anxious faces on the bridge, all his dear old friends. He could feel the sting of tears in his eyes, partly in concern for the returned men, partly in relief for the successful mission – and he wasn’t alone in tears. “Thank ye all,” he announced, “thank ye all.”

Someone released a victory whoop, and others joined in, laughing away tension, hugging. Scott admired and respected them all. Every one had performed his or her duties exceptionally well throughout the entire crisis. When they returned home, Scott would request some honor be given to all, with special commendations bestowed upon Chief Rand, Commander Sulu, and Commander Chekov. They deserved it – and more.

“Thank ye,” he whispered again.

* * * * *

 _to be continued_ …


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim Kirk, smiling broadly, practically manhandled the doctor into the foyer of his home, before gripping him in a rib-crushing bear-hug.  
> McCoy returned the hug as best he could with bandaged hands, and then they both lost all sense of time as they stood there in the walnut-and-marble foyer. Finally Kirk broke the hug, reaching both hands up to the doctor’s face to plant a big smoochy kiss on McCoy’s weathered cheek.  
> “Hey hey,” McCoy protested, “watch it. You want the neighbors talking?”

McCoy thought that after three months of recuperation and rehabilitation, he would be pre­pared. But when the heavy walnut front door of Kirk’s home opened in response to his buzz, an adrenalin quiver shot through his body and a gasp of shock escaped him.

Jim Kirk, on the other side of the doorway, nearly mirrored his friend’s heart-stopping shock; then a broad smile broke out and he practically manhandled the doctor into the foyer before gripping him in a rib-crushing bear-hug.

McCoy returned the hug as best he could with bandaged hands, and then they both lost all sense of time as they stood there in the walnut-and-marble foyer, squeezing and laughing and squeez­ing some more. Finally Kirk broke the hug, reaching both hands up to the doctor’s face to plant a big smoochy kiss on McCoy’s weathered cheek.

“Hey hey,” McCoy protested, “watch it. You want the neighbors talking?”

“Hell with the neighbors. Damn, I’m glad to see you, Bones! Damn glad!”

“I can see that.”

“C’mon in, c’mon.” Kirk closed the front door, then followed McCoy into the sitting room.

Then taking his friend’s shoulders again, Kirk looked him over once more with a smile of relief as though to reassure himself that it really was his dear old friend standing before him in the flesh right now.

“It’s me,” McCoy assured. “I’m here.”

“Back from the dead,” Kirk replied.

“We’re all back from the dead,” the doctor agreed gently, his physician’s-eyes noting a small tremor in Kirk’s muscles, a slight hesitation in speech that had never been present before, a little stiff­ness in walking. But McCoy didn’t mention it yet. Instead he pushed past Kirk toward the sofa. “And that calls for a celebration… and I’m thirsty. What have you got to drink?”

Without a word, but with a smile on his lips, Kirk strolled over to the glass coffee table upon which stood two glasses and a tall slender long-necked bottle half-full of aquamarine liquid, which he held up for the good doctor’s inspection.

“Aquarian mead?” the doctor questioned suspiciously. “Where did you find a bottle of Aqua­rian mead? There hasn’t been any shipped to this quadrant of the galaxy for fifty years.”

A very innocent shrug of shoulders. Kirk’s eyes dropped to the two crystal glasses gripped between his fingers as he poured the pale aqua liquid into them, then offered one to his good friend. “I acquired some the last time I visited the Vega system on leave.”

“One does not ‘acquire’ Aquarian mead in _any_ star system.” The doctor wasted no time sam­pling the magic refreshment – the very potent magic refreshment.

Kirk studied his in the light for a moment, then clinked glasses with McCoy. “Not even star­ship commanders?”

“Not even Federation admirals.”

“Well…” Kirk finally admitted, carefully lowering his weight into a huge dark-brown over­stuffed chair, “it just so happens I have an… acquaintance on Solaria with a taste for Aquarian mead.”

“A very expensive taste,” the doctor agreed, seating himself on the sofa at the corner of Kirk’s chair. He indulged in another swallow. Even one taste made his ears ring, his head buzz, and the rest of him fee pretty damn good too. “Uh, if I may ask, is the Solarian friend of yours – with the very expensive tastes – of the female persuasion?”

“She might be.” Subtle humor flickered in Kirk’s eyes – something McCoy hadn't expected to see soon and was relieved to note – “As a matter of fact, the last night I was there, she gave me a case of the stuff… as a token of our friendship.”

“Some friendship.” Another swallow. “You must have been very good that night, Admi­ral…”

A lift of eyebrow, tiny wink. “I was… Besides, as they say, rank does have its privileges…”

“I imagine so.”

Then setting his drink on the small glass coffee table in front of them – tremor noticeable in his hand – Kirk turned a sincere smile on his old friend whom he hadn't seen in almost three months. “So tell me, how’s Maggie?”

“She’s fine.” McCoy relaxed back in the comfortable sofa. “I’m just home three months and she’s trying to kick me out of the house already. Says I’m underfoot, and why don’t I find something to do, go explore some uncharted planet on the far side of the galaxy… And she’s probably right. I don’t belong down here on terra firma anyway.”

“She says nothing of the kind.” Kirk grinned. “You old space-dog – she’s probably as thrilled as a Remoran hopper that you’re back home. She hasn’t seen you in almost a year. Probably brings you breakfast in bed every morning and cuddles you to sleep every night. And don’t tell me you don’t love every minute of it. And you know, you’re going to have to start watching your weight – all those home-cooked meals. You’re already getting fat.” He gestured toward McCoy’s skinny body.

McCoy grinned. “Yeah… compared to those automated ‘untouched-by-human-hands’ con­coctions the Enterprise feeds us.”

Kirk watched him seriously, affectionately. “Maggie’s a sweet lady. I’m sure she misses you a lot. You’re gone more than you’re home. And I know you get pretty lonely up there too without her, floating in space for months on end.”

McCoy shrugged, trying to unsuccessfully to hide the sentimentality in his eyes. “Well, that‘s what it’s like, mixing marriage with rocket jockeys. We accepted that fact when we got married twenty-five years ago.”

“Twenty-five years ago,” Kirk echoed, drifting into sentimentality himself. “You had the wedding reception on the recreation deck of the Enterprise, remember? She was new then too.”

“And I also seem to remember,” the doctor recollected, “that was the last time I tasted Aqua­rian mead.”

Kirk’s tiny chuckle agreed. Then changing the subject, he indicated McCoy’s bandaged hands. “How are you coming along?”

McCoy studied one gauze-wrapped palm. “Oh, not badly at all. The skin grafts are taking pretty well. A few set-backs, but by-and-large, a success. I’m scheduled next week for my fourth operation. A couple more months, and I’m supposed to be good as new. Doctor Raymond Barnes is a damn good surgeon.”

“Almost as good as you?”

“Almost.” McCoy grinned, then turned serious eyes on his friend. “And how are you progres­sing?”

“Is that a friendly question or a professional inquiry?”

“A little of both – you’ll get my bill at the end of the month.”

They both smiled at the old joke, but not because there was much humor in the situation.

Kirk looked down, shoulders slumped, forearms resting on knees. The tremors in his hands and arms had increased. “Well, the days are all right… the nights are still a little rough… dreams, you know.”

McCoy nodded shortly. “Yeah. I know.”

Kirk held out one trembling hand. “I suffered nerve damage – they used needle electrodes in my joints… sometimes I have a little trouble walking or picking up objects. It seems to get worse in the evening, and especially when I get tired.”

“Are you on any medication?” McCoy had taken Kirk’s bare outstretched arm, and was ob­serving the needle scars on the inner skin of his wrist and elbow.

“Yes, but the drugs they give me make me sick or practically turn me into a zombie. I can’t function at all, I feel like a sleep-walker. So I just don’t take anything.”

“Well, they’ve just got you on the wrong stuff. I’ll figure something out. What about ES therapy?”

“An hour a day – oh god, Bones, that hurts worse than what the Klingons did.”

“Well, where do you think the therapists get their training?”

Kirk grinned a little. “Now I know where you got yours.” He diverted the subject. “Have you seen any of the others? I haven’t seen anyone since I was released from the hospital last month.”

“Well, that’s your own doing – refusing to talk to anyone,” McCoy scolded gently. “Yeah, I saw Scotty a few days ago.”

“How is the old Scotsman?”

“Old, and Scottish.” The doctor finished his last swallow of aquamarine heaven. “He told me something – now, it’s supposed to be a secret, and I’m not even supposed to tell you, so don’t you go tell anyone – but he’s planning to propose to Seanna, marry her before our next mission.”

The humor returned to Kirk’s eyes. “Seanna? That cute little Irish gal he met at the anti-matter physics convention last year? She’s twenty years younger that he is. That old codger.”

“She’s twenty years younger,” McCoy agreed, “she’s an expert in propulsion mechanics… and she loves ancient bagpipe music.”

Kirk winced at the all-too familiar memory of the caterwauling which often wailed from the chief engineer’s cabin after dinner. “Sounds like they’re made for each other.”

“It does indeed.”

Then rising from his seat, Kirk crossed the dimly-lit walnut-panelled sitting room to the liquor cabinet across the floor for another delightful bottle of mead. “Well, I wish them both the best. What do you think, is the Enterprise up to another wedding reception like that one twenty-five years ago?”

“Well, I don’t know about the Enterprise, but I know I’m certainly not anymore.”

A refill of glasses. Kirk sat down again, but didn’t look at the doctor. “Have you seen Spock?” he inquired. “How is he doing?”

McCoy watched Kirk sharply, momentarily hesitating, then responded. “He’s better. He’s walking with braces now. Handling all of this a lot easier than the rest of us.”

A tightening of the corner of Kirk’s mouth, a feeble attempt at the old banter. “It figures. Nothing fazes him.”

For once McCoy ignored the Vulcan-aimed humor. “He wants to see you, Jim. He won’t barge in on your privacy uninvited, but he said to tell you that he wants to see you.”

Kirk’s head shook abruptly. “No… I, uh, couldn’t… I just couldn’t… I want to, but I…”

“Jim, he needs to see you. Mentally he’s hurting… badly.”

“Did he tell you that?”

“Of course not. But how many years has it been since either of you had to come out and tell me when you were hurting? I know it’s been hell on you too. We’re all having a rough time getting over this.”

“I. uh… called for him, didn’t I? when they were…” Sudden shame and remorse clouded Kirk’s eyes. “When the pain… got really bad… I think I called for him… I didn’t mean to do that.”

“Jim, it doesn’t matter. We were all crazy out of our heads back then. I know I was pretty rough on him at the time, because he was acting so calm on the surface – you know, like he always does in times of stress – and I said things I shouldn’t have. I’m surprised he ever forgave me – the guilt trip I tried to lay on him then… But that’s all past us now. It’s over and we need to release it the best each of us can. I think Spock would like the three of us to connect in a healing meld. We need to be together now to get through the memories and the pain. That’s the best medical advice I can give.”

Kirk’s head shook. “I can’t face his… Vulcan mind yet… I don’t want him to… know what they did to me…”

“Jim, I’m sure he already knows. You two seem to have a special telepathy, and you know how in times of stress he can read you. Don’t lock him out now. Don’t lock any of us out.” McCoy leaned forward to pierce to the heart of the matter. “Jim. You locked yourself up all alone in this big house of yours as soon as they released you from the hospital. You refuse to see anyone. Jim, the crew is worried about you. They’re your friends and they’re scared sick.”

“I know,” Kirk cut in, body shifting forward anxiously to perch on the edge of his chair, elbows on knees, fingers nervously playing with his glass. “I miss them all, so much… Spock… god I want to see him so badly… so badly… and the others… all of them…”

“Then call him. He wants to talk with you… Jim, you need to talk it out with him.”

Again Kirk’s head shook abruptly. “I can’t… dammit, Bones… I just can’t… not just yet…”

Even in the soft mellow room light, McCoy could see the fading discolorations and the scars marking his friend’s face. Over three months had passed since the torture, yet the memories lingered as crisp and clear as yesterday.

Kirk continued speaking into the evening dimness. “… After what we went through… after what _I_ went through… I needed time to be alone, to think… to reëstablish my priorities… Dammit, Bones, I’m fifty-two year old… you’re what, sixty-three?... and Spock is fifty-seven… We’ve been at this for twenty-five years, Bones…”

“And we always knew it could happen any time – it could have happened twenty years ago. We were just damn lucky for a long time. And then – just once – the Klingons got lucky and caught us off-guard… But even then we made it, didn’t we? We got away, with the crew and the ship in­tact… And Krugh got himself blown to hell for his trouble.”

Moisture glistened in Kirk’s eyes, voice close to a whisper. “Krugh… that goddamned bas­tard… I hope he _is_ in hell. I hope the son-of-a-bitch is frying right now… what he did to my boy… what he did to all of us…”

“I’m sure he is, Jim,” McCoy tried to soothe gently. “And I’m sure he has a lot of company. But now it’s time for us to get on with our lives. All right, it happened. You went through hell – we all did – and we came out the other side. We’ve got to let go of it now.”

Kirk didn’t answer, and the two men sat together in the silence for awhile. Then Kirk spoke again. “I, uh, had a specific reason for inviting you over tonight… besides just catching up on crew gossip. I have some business that, uh, involves you.” He had to take another swallow of his drink. “I said I needed some time to reëstablish my priorities. And… I’ve finally come to a decision.” Now his gaze caught McCoy’s steadily. “I’ve applied for a discharge, Bones – medical retirement. And since you’ve been my Ship’s Surgeon as well as my personal physician for the past twenty-five years, I know that Starfleet will be contacting you for your evaluation… I wanted to tell you first.”

“You’re too late,” McCoy countered. “Starfleet already informed yesterday.”

“Have you read my hospital file yet?”

“Not yet – just a little – It still hits pretty close to some mental wounds of my own. I can’t get through any of our records yet.” He felt himself beginning to tremble with the bright clear memory of seeing his captain’s limp body thrown back into the cell after the Klingons had spent a couple of hours with him – Jim Kirk crumpled naked on the filthy floor, bloody and unconscious, and McCoy with ruined hands unable to help him. The grotesque memory stabbed sharply into McCoy’s solar plexus.

“You’re my doctor,” Kirk reiterated. “And as Ship’s CMO, you have the ultimate authority to pronounce the commanding officer medically unfit for duty.”

“Of course.”

“Then do it, Bones. For me.”

McCoy looked at his old friend, pale-blue eyes stared intently into the other man. True, it would take a hell of a lot more than simply a fading of bruises and knitting of broken bones before the three of them could forget the eternity of their three days in hell. And none of them was up to dashing off to the far reaches of the galaxy right now. The concern was a valid one: would any of them ever really be mentally fit again to face the possibility of another situation like that?

But then the doctor shook his head. “No, Jim, I won’t. Not yet. Let’s all heal a little more… give it some time…”

“Bones, I can’t command any longer! After what Krugh did to me…” Re-lived agony tensed his muscles, tightened his voice into a choked whisper, “… oh, god what those Klingon bastards did to me…”

“And look what those damned sons-of-Klingon-bitches did to me!” McCoy thrust gauze-bandaged hands at Kirk. “They ruined my hands, Captain, burned ‘em so badly I may never be able to perform surgery again. And Spock – he was in the hospital longer than either of us. The doctors came close to amputating his legs, they were shattered so badly.”

Uneasily Kirk looked at McCoy’s horrible mementos of their ordeal three months before – such a short three months before.

But even McCoy’s horror, or Spock's, didn’t dissuade Kirk from his own personal agony. Elbows still on spread knees, he rested his tired head against his clasped fists. The involuntary mus­cle tremors shook his whole body, very noticeable now. Voice whispered tight, close to tears again. “I can’t command the Enterprise anymore, Bones, I’m not worthy of it. Krugh and his bastards broke me… I wanted to tell them what they asked for… I was willing to give them the ship, if they’d just stop.”

“But you didn’t give it to them. They finally gave up on you, and that’s when we were res­cued. Four-hundred-and-ninety-two people risked their lives to rescue us. Don’t desert them now. Jim, you are not unfit for duty. Long recuperation, yes, maybe another six months, nine months, and then the Enterprise is going to launch again… with you in command.”

Kirk’s head continued to shake negation. “Bones, you don’t understand. I’ve lost my com­mand presence, my authority. I’ve lost what it takes to be a commander.” He tried to control his shuddering half-sobbing breath. “I don’t… want it anymore.”

“Then Krugh will have won. After all these years, if you surrender now, he’ll have gotten what he wanted, even in death. He’ll have really beaten you.” Comfortingly McCoy reached to touch his friend’s arm, eyes soft on Kirk’s face. “Jim, I’m sorry.”

Kirk’s gaze watched him, bright and upset, and now tears did break through, trembling hands unclenched to cover his eyes as though to shield them from the horror; only, the horror was behind his eyes and he couldn’t stop that, he couldn’t block the rush of nightmare phantasms that seared his brain. The abruptly he looked up, eyes glazed, staring straight ahead, face rigidly fighting back any more tears, body nearly racked with tremors.

“I’m sorry, Jim,” McCoy consoled deeply.

Color had drained from Kirk’s mask-like visage, tears leaked through the façade – McCoy wondered momentarily if Kirk was on the verge of passing out – tiny sobs broke in Kirk’s tight throat; several moments passed before he regained even a whisper. “… what he did to me…”

“Jim…” McCoy interrupted, hardly able to control his own voice, feeling ill himself. “Jim, it’s over. You’re all right now. Krugh is dead.” Instinctively he reached a comforting hand to Kirk’s shoulder, as someone else had done for him, not that long ago. He squeezed gently, as best he could with burned hands, wishing that he could remove the gangrenous growth in his friend’s mind as easily as he could have excised a malignancy on the operating table.

Kirk picked up on his thought. Gaining control of his voice, and wiping the back of a hand across his runny nose, he commented with a bitter touch of irony, “Tell me, Bones, how is it that surgeons can operate and remove diseased flesh, but they can’t get out cancers of the mind, why is that?”

“I wish I knew,” McCoy tried to comfort, moving over to sit on the arm of Kirk’s chair. “I wish we could.” Hands rested on either side of Kirk’s neck, felt the tight trembling muscles. “At least you’re under the care of a psychiatrist now, aren’t you?”

“Oh yes, just like you and Spock, I’m sure.” A short release of breath to express disdain, ano­ther swipe of knuckles across runny nose, then fingertips across teary eyes. “Does yours quote all the textbook questions like mine? Does he look at you with at calm patronizing stare like you’re some kind of pathetic freak?”

McCoy didn’t answer, but gently massaged the tight neck muscles.

“He wasn’t there, Bones… why does he think he knows how I feel?”

Trained fingers tried to soothe, calm, heal. “I’m sure he’s not thinking that, Jim. I’m sure he’s doing the best he knows how. Torture is a difficult subject even for healers to deal with.”

“It’s a hell of a lot tougher for the victims!”

“Of course it is.”

Another gulp of mead to cool a tight throat. “Please, Bones, declare me unfit for duty. I don’t want it anymore… please read the psychiatric report.”

“Does the psychiatrist think you’re unfit for duty?”

“He won’t tell me what he thinks. Keeps giving me damn stupid tests. I wonder how Spock is getting along with his wet-nurse.”

“They didn’t assign a human to him. He’s under the care of a couple of Vulcan healers. He won’t give me the details of the therapy, but he insists that his mental state has improved.”

“You know, when we were all in the hospital, I even thought about… committing suicide… I seriously thought about it.”

“There’s nothing abnormal about that,” McCoy countered. “After what you went through, I’d consider it abnormal if you _hadn't_ contemplated suicide.”

“I nearly gave up the ship, Bones… I don’t deserve to command her anymore… and I can’t face the crew…”

“For chrissakes, Jim, that’s compulsion under duress.” Softly he worked Kirk’s tight quiver­ing shoulders. “You can’t be held responsible for your thoughts and actions under severe torture. You know that. You wouldn’t hold one of your subordinates responsible in the same situation, would you?”

The teary gaze wavered, head shook once.

“All right then. No more of this ‘medical discharge’ talk. We all need a long recuperation, a damn long recuperation, and then we’ll be all right. All of us.”

Kirk didn’t answer, but sat there gazing into the crystalline aquamarine depths of his drink. McCoy wasn’t sure he hadn't just said something damn close to stupid. Platitudes sounded just fine – as long as you didn’t try to apply them to real life. What was ‘all right’? Was there such a thing a normality anymore? He started to apologize for the home-spun inanities.

But Kirk wasn’t even thinking of that. He was deep in his own meditation, in his own hell.

“Recuperate,” he echoed the doctor, not raising his eyes from the glass on the table before him. “Dreams, Bones, how do you recuperate from the dreams?”

“I don’t know,” McCoy admitted softly. “I don’t know.”

“I keep seeing them… feeling what they did to me… every time I try to sleep… I wake up screaming…”

And then Kirk raised his head, face slightly turned toward the doctor, and his half-quavering voice requested, “Bones… you won’t tell Spock that you… saw me like this… will you? Don’t tell him I… lost control and cried…”

“No, of course not,” McCoy reassured softly. And continued to hold him gently, affectiona­tely; and the doctor remembered another man’s secret which would never be revealed: arms that had once comforted him, and tears that had stained his shirt.

* * * * * **FINIS** * * * * *

_“A faithful friend is the medicine of life.”_

_– Apocrypha_


End file.
